Mature Romance Books Novels & Stories

Every time I brought up another dark romance, another obscure vampire lore theory, another fantasy where the heroine begged to be drained while she came undone, they would groan and roll their eyes. “Elena, for fuck’s sake, you need to get properly fucked by a living, breathing man instead of jerking off to fictional undead dick,” my best friend had laughed the last time. But she didn’t understand. Nothing—no toy, no lover, no late-night fling—had ever come close to the aching, throbbing need that vampire fantasies stirred in me. The surrender. The possession. The exquisite terror of giving your blood, your body, and perhaps even your soul to something far older and more powerful than you.

Then I felt him, close, too close. Warmth at my back, the faint scent of his cologne wrapping around me like smoke. I gasped and spun around. Alex was bent down, picking something up. When he straightened, my black lace thong dangled from his fingers like a trophy. “You wear things like this, doll?” His voice was low, rough, amused. Heat exploded across my face. My brain just short circuited. My eyes enlarged and something sparked inside of me, the way the corner of his lips tugged upward. I lunged forward and snatched it from him, fingers brushing his in the process. Electricity shot straight between my legs.

she chirped, clicking play. As the story unfolded, with its sweeping landscapes and tense romantic dialogue, she felt herself being drawn in. Then came the first intimate scene. It was artfully shot, but raw and passionate. A slow, warm flush began to spread through her body, a familiar ache of arousal coiling deep in her belly.

I gathered my courage and walked over, picking up a random title so I would not look like I was hovering. “Any recommendations?” I asked, keeping my voice light. She turned fully toward me. Up close she was even more striking—high cheekbones, a small scar above one eyebrow that somehow made her face more interesting. “Depends what you like. Something quiet, or something that keeps you up at night?” “Something that keeps me up,” I said, surprising myself. She smiled, slow and knowing, and handed me a worn paperback. “Try this one. The writing is sharp.”

Inside these pages you will find: Older dominant men who take what they want Girls who call them Daddy while they’re being ruined Blackmail, punishment, rough sex, multiple partners, and filthy, unapologetic smut If you are looking for soft romance, emotional healing, or closed-door scenes, close this book now. If you want raw, obsessive, wrong, and dripping wet stories that will leave you aching… Welcome. You have been warned. 18+ only. ***NORA'S POV*** My fingers were already dripping wet.

"You're welcome, honey. I also got a power converter so that you can run it off the windmill batteries." "What made you get this?" "This is a two room cabin, Jimmy. Neither of us has any secrets. I knew you were spying on me almost daily, trying to see me naked. I also know about the books and magazines that you brought along. The titles of the books were what really gave it away. 'What a Sucking Mother', and 'Billy's Hot Mom'. I read both of them several times last summer. When I got to the really good parts, where the mother was fucking her son, I fucked myself with my dildo and fantasized about you. Where on earth did you find books that old?"

When she returned, her cheeks were flushed, and her breathing had grown heavier. Riven had already lowered himself back into his large leather office chair, legs spread, his thick erection straining visibly against his trousers. He crooked a finger at her. “Come here.” Mirabel didn’t hesitate. She moved around the desk and climbed onto his lap, straddling him. Her tight skirt rode up high on her thighs as she settled over him, her soaked panties pressing directly against the hard bulge of his cock. The heat between them was intense. Riven groaned at the contact, his hands immediately gripping her ass, pulling her tighter against him. He leaned forward, burying his face between her full breas

I am yours, I breathed, my hands sliding beneath his suit jacket, pressing flat against the burning, muscular breadth of his back. His dark eyes snapped, the last fragile thread of his restraint shattering completely. Adrian claimed my mouth in a kiss that was pure, possessive ruin. It wasn't gentle, nor was it meant to comfort me. It was desperate, demanding, and filthy, tasting of dark promises, blood, and absolute authority. His tongue invaded my mouth, plundering every inch of me while his free hand slid down my spine, cupping my rear through the fabric of my dress and lifting me up off the ground to seat me firmly over his thigh.

I take a sip of my cocktail and savor the light pink liquid between my lips, enjoying the bitterness of vodka mixed in with the sugar sweetness of strawberry flavored cream. Feeling depressed and hating everything about love, I take another sip of my drink. This one’s larger, but I still savor it. Roll it around my tongue before swallowing. “Great idea, Nora,” I whisper to myself, staring down into the milky, soft ice, “go to the bar of one of the most sought-after romance destinations in the state to get away from romance!” I mock myself, resting my chin in my hand. “My mother was right. Getawting older doesn’t make you smarter. Using your brain does.”

He leaned back in his chair, clearly not expecting such an immediate and forceful response. "You'll go? What about finding your mate?" he asked, tilting his head. "I thought you promised yourself you'd never leave London until you found them." The question hit me like a physical blow, reminding me of yet another failure in my life. I had made that promise to myself when I was eighteen, convinced that my mate was somewhere in this city waiting for me. I was supposed to feel some kind of bond, some magical connection when I met the right person. But when I turned eighteen, nothing happened. No sudden recognition, no overwhelming attraction, no sense of completeness. I thought maybe my mate jus